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The cry

With no ceremony nor restraint
shouts Earth’s breath
down our ears,
the insolence of a dissonant voice
drowns the heart’s beat.

He struggles to hold back the impetuous
advances of the beast, tempestuous,
resplendent, wild,
he struggles to hold back
the evocations of other times, of other places,
the evocations of other scents, of other faces,
the evocations of other rhythms, of other songs,
songs from deep crimson valleys,
the song of the cicada
on a long summer night.

Within its gilded cage,
the fire flickers, uneasily, fearful
of the relentless assault of the fierce prowler
charging down the chimney pot
to land hissing at the cats’ feet,
feather paws glide them into secret dens
that only felines know about,
whilst of warmer dawns he dreams,
where blue slowly paints the horizon
with strokes of light,
where his lover slowly alights his hunger
with the dance of life.

Traces erased on his wake,
morrows dormant, inscrutable landscape,
paths carved through foreign words,
oceans and tears to his anxious gaze impervious,
beware of the wandering memories!
whilst faceless shadows venom spit
behind silent covens.

Listen! Voices speak
to the now tired bones.

Listen! Voices speak
of the thin strands of gold
within her sinuous hair gently swaying
in that crepuscular sea,

of the emerald blue waves
lapping within her oceanic eyes
as she faded into the haze
of a long gone summer.

Listen! Voices speak
of here, of the warmth
of home, of velvet curtains, of china
with whispers of proper manners
still embedded within tea leaves,
resting after the orgiastic non hours.

© Pablo Luis González, August 2007